Thundering roads, travelling at speed—
two wheels to balance man and machine.
Black night riding on the lights,
the only way to see where I go.
Road and trees now merge.
Eyes bare and heavy—rest,
rest now. I dream.
The old house I see through my lighted way,
sat high on the high hill.
“That will do,” I sigh calmly.
Now I can rest my bare eyes.
Sleep now.
Tomorrow I will ride more.
As I close, I see the house is an inn—
better still.
I stand the machine, secure.
Tomorrow we will ride more.
I gaze high on the inn.
My bare eyes glimpse a shadow—
looking close to the window. Now gone.
The old sign reads Travellers Rest.
A door handle of old brass. I knock,
then knock again.
“I hear you,” a man cries.
“I hear you—knock no more…”
“Have you a room for the night, sir?”
“Why yes. Yes, come in, come in,”
the man repeats and repeats.
Still, no matter—
a room I now have.
My bare eyes heavy.
Sleep I need.
Sleep, now I think and repeat.
Eyes drawn to a doorway.
I dream, I think.
Shake my head—I dream.
There’s nobody there.
“Number 29, sir—my birthday.”
“Second floor.
Lift not working. Sorry, sir.
The stairs you must take.”
“Thanks,” I sigh.
Looking to the stairs,
shake my head,
wipe my poor bare eyes.
Nobody there.
“OK, sir?” asks the old man.
“Yes, yes… thought… well…”
Now I repeat,
“Thought I saw someone.”
“My wife, sir. My wife—
setting your bed, sir.”
Climbing the stair,
I see down the passage
the glow of a warm fire.
“Straight ahead, sir.
Straight ahead—that’s your room.
Nice and warm now, sir.
Nice and warm,”
the old man still continues to repeat.
So weary now.
My bare eyes catch a glimpse—a shadow.
I squint to see.
Nothing. Gone.
Sure—I’m so sure something was there.
“Here we go, sir. Here we go.”
Entering the room—warm and snug.
A large bed, fit for a king.
“A king,” now again I repeat.
“Supper, sir. Supper at seven, sir.”
“OK… maybe… not sure…”
I dream of sleep.
I lay on the bed,
slumber into a light doze.
Music now playing below.
Shadows I see through the gap
of door and floor.
People passing, I suppose.
Tick tick, tick tock—
goes the old clock above the fireplace.
Sleep…
Chimes of seven awake me.
I look to my watch—eight.
Eight o’clock.
The clock is slow.
The music still playing.
More shadows now pass my door.
Strange.
No voices.
No voices, I repeat.
I dream.
Sleep.
Sleep I need—fit for my ride,
me and my machine.
Chimes of seven awake me.
Eight o’clock, I think.
Looking to my watch—no,
seven o’clock.
It runs well now.
Shadows passing my door.
Voices and laughter.
Knock knock.
“It’s the old man.”
“Breakfast, sir. Breakfast.
Seven-thirty, sir. Seven-thirty, sir.”
The man still repeats.
“Thank you, thank you,”
now I repeat.
I rise, wash, and vacate my room.
Glimpse—something there.
I turn. Nothing.
Nothing.
Trekking the stairs,
standing at the bottom,
wiping my bare eyes.
“What is this? What?”
Deep breaths I take.
Spinning round—what?
Derelict.
Derelict.
The inn is just a shell.
I turn and look to the stairs—
dark, broken.
Nothing.
Just a derelict old house.
Its glory long past.
My bare eyes stare—
disbelief.
A voice from the street:
“OK? You OK there, sir?
Careful now, careful.
That place’s been long gone.
Fire. Fire, sir.
Terrible. Terrible it was.
All dead. All dead.”
“Are you OK, sir? Are you OK?”
“’Twas my twin brother’s place, it was.
Gone now. Gone now, sir.
Well—I’ll be on my way.”
I wipe my bare eyes.
“What was this? What?”
“Hey, sir!” shouts the man.
“They say my twin still roams this place…”
Silence.
Shock.
I de-stand my bike,
taking to the thunder—
the thunder of the road.
Man and machine.
Balanced as one.
As one.
Now I repeat.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 6:42 AM UTC
Thundering roads, travelling at speed—
two wheels to balance man and machine.
Black night riding on the lights,
the only way to see where I go.
Road and trees now merge.
Eyes bare and heavy—rest,
rest now. I dream.
The old house I see through my lighted way,
sat high on the high hill.
“That will do,” I sigh calmly.
Now I can rest my bare eyes.
Sleep now.
Tomorrow I will ride more.
As I close, I see the house is an inn—
better still.
I stand the machine, secure.
Tomorrow we will ride more.
I gaze high on the inn.
My bare eyes glimpse a shadow—
looking close to the window. Now gone.
The old sign reads Travellers Rest.
A door handle of old brass. I knock,
then knock again.
“I hear you,” a man cries.
“I hear you—knock no more…”
“Have you a room for the night, sir?”
“Why yes. Yes, come in, come in,”
the man repeats and repeats.
Still, no matter—
a room I now have.
My bare eyes heavy.
Sleep I need.
Sleep, now I think and repeat.
Eyes drawn to a doorway.
I dream, I think.
Shake my head—I dream.
There’s nobody there.
“Number 29, sir—my birthday.”
“Second floor.
Lift not working. Sorry, sir.
The stairs you must take.”
“Thanks,” I sigh.
Looking to the stairs,
shake my head,
wipe my poor bare eyes.
Nobody there.
“OK, sir?” asks the old man.
“Yes, yes… thought… well…”
Now I repeat,
“Thought I saw someone.”
“My wife, sir. My wife—
setting your bed, sir.”
Climbing the stair,
I see down the passage
the glow of a warm fire.
“Straight ahead, sir.
Straight ahead—that’s your room.
Nice and warm now, sir.
Nice and warm,”
the old man still continues to repeat.
So weary now.
My bare eyes catch a glimpse—a shadow.
I squint to see.
Nothing. Gone.
Sure—I’m so sure something was there.
“Here we go, sir. Here we go.”
Entering the room—warm and snug.
A large bed, fit for a king.
“A king,” now again I repeat.
“Supper, sir. Supper at seven, sir.”
“OK… maybe… not sure…”
I dream of sleep.
I lay on the bed,
slumber into a light doze.
Music now playing below.
Shadows I see through the gap
of door and floor.
People passing, I suppose.
Tick tick, tick tock—
goes the old clock above the fireplace.
Sleep…
Chimes of seven awake me.
I look to my watch—eight.
Eight o’clock.
The clock is slow.
The music still playing.
More shadows now pass my door.
Strange.
No voices.
No voices, I repeat.
I dream.
Sleep.
Sleep I need—fit for my ride,
me and my machine.
Chimes of seven awake me.
Eight o’clock, I think.
Looking to my watch—no,
seven o’clock.
It runs well now.
Shadows passing my door.
Voices and laughter.
Knock knock.
“It’s the old man.”
“Breakfast, sir. Breakfast.
Seven-thirty, sir. Seven-thirty, sir.”
The man still repeats.
“Thank you, thank you,”
now I repeat.
I rise, wash, and vacate my room.
Glimpse—something there.
I turn. Nothing.
Nothing.
Trekking the stairs,
standing at the bottom,
wiping my bare eyes.
“What is this? What?”
Deep breaths I take.
Spinning round—what?
Derelict.
Derelict.
The inn is just a shell.
I turn and look to the stairs—
dark, broken.
Nothing.
Just a derelict old house.
Its glory long past.
My bare eyes stare—
disbelief.
A voice from the street:
“OK? You OK there, sir?
Careful now, careful.
That place’s been long gone.
Fire. Fire, sir.
Terrible. Terrible it was.
All dead. All dead.”
“Are you OK, sir? Are you OK?”
“’Twas my twin brother’s place, it was.
Gone now. Gone now, sir.
Well—I’ll be on my way.”
I wipe my bare eyes.
“What was this? What?”
“Hey, sir!” shouts the man.
“They say my twin still roams this place…”
Silence.
Shock.
I de-stand my bike,
taking to the thunder—
the thunder of the road.
Man and machine.
Balanced as one.
As one.
Now I repeat.
This was my attempt for a story poem, I wrote this many years ago while I was still serving in the Army, I've always owned and rode Motorbikes, especially during my periods of leave, trust me I stay in some strange places back then.
Request permission to use this poem